One Is The Loneliest Number...

Growing up, there were seven people in my family sharing a three bedroom, one bath home.  At college, I lived with three girls in a one-bedroom NYC walk-up.  I shared my first post-college apartment with my best friend, and when she got married, my boyfriend/future husband moved in.  We raised three active sons who for the most part stayed close to the family. As dysfunctional as we all might have been, there was some comfort in having someone around to at least tell you that you were dragging toilet paper on your shoe or had spinach in your teeth.
Last summer was the first time it was just me hanging without a safety net. Rebuilding after Sandy, I taught myself how to use a hammer without
causing too much damage and even a cordless drill/screwdriver (instead of a butter knife) But that's when I discovered that there are just some things I couldn't do (or do easily) without my Wingman.

The first was trying to cut off a plastic wristband after a day at the beach.  Do you know that eHow actually gives instructions on the web for stuff like this?  I couldn't maneuver either the right or the left-handed scissors with my opposite hand.  Thinking I might accidentally slit my wrist left me skittish about using a steak knife. I considered using my teeth but the idea of gnawing on it like a beaver on a tree (and having yellow plastic in my teeth with no one to tell me) killed that idea. I resorted to using a nail clipper and a day later, it was cut ragged enough to break off.

Next is opening a door knob with coffee in one hand and the garbage and/or recycling in the other.  Something has to give.  Until I learned that coffee trumped garbage and I had to put the coffee down to open the door since Wingman wasn't there to open it for me, it was wet floors or worse, wearing my coffee.

Couples dinner parties are impossible now.  Other than one friend who had a girlfriend in from Florida who was my dinner-date, I haven't been invited to anyone's homes. Odd number guests seem to put people off.  Come to think about it, I never had a dinner party where I invited a single friend.  Karma really is a bitch.

Lastly was conversation. Sure, for the most part Wingman was happy just to grunt during dinner which he considered scintillating.  But since last summer I have caught myself on occasion talking out loud and now I understand that crazy lady in the grocery store who talks to the pickles. It probably started for her just like it did for me: "Oh crap, where did this leak in the ceiling come from?"  It's all downhill from there.

I love my quiet time, and I'm not scared to make all the decisions.  My "Final Answers" for the most part haven't caused me regret.  But there are days when I go up to that box in the closet (the one stamped "remains" that I still have to decide what to do with), and say "You suck for leaving me with all this". And I'm not afraid to say it out loud.